


are you gonna let it pass you by?

by ivyns



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Charleston Shoe Thieves, Gen, Incineration, hey do you ever get sad about matteo prestige because i do, matteo does die but it is not actually shown on screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28116234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyns/pseuds/ivyns
Summary: On day 52 of Season 3, Matteo Prestige has an allergic reaction to a peanut.On day 57 of Season 3, Matteo Prestige is incinerated.This is the days between.
Relationships: Matteo Prestige & Cornelius Games
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	are you gonna let it pass you by?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains descriptions of an allergic reaction, not being able to breathe, and anxiety.
> 
> Title is from [The Thread by Shovel & Rope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCTvpHkQLKw) which you should listen to if you want to get sad.
> 
> I wouldn't have written this fic if [ Oil and Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746212) didn't exist and you should absolutely read it.
> 
> Also thanks to Reblase for allowing me to make myself sad about statistics.

Matteo had never been one for patter. It wasn’t part of a show that came naturally to them. They could drill a trick until it came like breathing, read a crowd, and give a satisfying conclusion. They could execute the Prestige. They could not consistently talk while they were doing it. And really, as long as they nailed their angles and got a trick right they didn’t need any.

They’d only ever gotten one bit of patter down and it was wasn’t even for magic. It was the “what do you do if I go into anaphylactic shock” talk they’d been giving since they were fourteen to anyone they’d gotten to know well enough. They’d go through where to find their epipen, how to use it, what to tell 911, and then they’d do the bit they’d worked on.

“It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. Been fine every time before and I’ll keep being fine as long as you remember what to do. Now walk me through it.”

They started with reassurance, moved to emphasizing the importance of remembering, and then solidifying that the other person did remember by having them say it back.

They’d done a a refresher for everyone (besides Beasley and Vela) before Season 1 started and then had stopped actively thinking about it until Season 3 when new weather started.

Peanuts weren’t so bad on the larger scale of possible fiery death but it was something Matteo had context for. Dying in a terrible inferno in the middle of a game they couldn’t think about. Having a reaction they’d had before in the middle of a game they could at least imagine and have some control over.

  
  


So, at the beginning of Season 3 they run Cornelius through their spiel, check the expiration dates on all their epipen, update their medical file, and try to put it out of their mind. They’re a pitcher and they’re only on the field for a fifth of all games and Peanuts are the weather a third of the time. They’re as safe as they can be.

More than half the season is fine. Workman gets a yummy reaction and so do a hitter from the Fridays and one from the Mills in games against the Thieves. Matteo gets into a routine of checking the weather first thing and taking an extremely thorough shower after peanut games, even if it’s not a 2 or 7 and they’re hanging out in the dugout for most of it. It’s annoying but ignorable until day 52.

It’s more than halfway through the season and the Thieves are looking like they might have a chance at the post. It’s enough of a chance that Matteo’s not counting down the days to 100 yet. It’s the second game in a series against the Breath Mints. The Mints have Fourth Strike this season which is a pain in the shoulder and elbow to deal with since games drag out longer than they have to but it’s the top of the ninth. Things are tied up but Matteo’s confident the Thieves can pull a shame victory as long as they can keep things tied up against Hewitt. The count is 3-3 which doesn’t leave space for wiggle room but as long as they strike out Hewitt, the Mints will be out and they can go stretch out their shoulder in the dugout.

Throwing a strike is what they’re thinking about when the clouds let loose a rain of peanuts and, distracted, Matteo looks up.

Things get fuzzy after that. A peanut gets lodged in their throat and they cough and then swallow and then realize they’ve made a mistake. Their knees hit the mound before they can think that they need to get to the dugout and the ball slips from their hand. They’re coughing again, too late to do anything about the peanut, and struggling to breathe and they’re torn between seeing if the ball hits the foul line and trying to spot the umps since there’s no way in hell they trust the umpires to not pull an incineration even when the sun is out and they can’t breathe and they can’t _breathe_

And then Cornelius is there, hauling them upright, slinging an arm over his shoulders, and getting them, staggering, into the dugout. Someone (Bookbaby? No, Briggs) is getting them lying down and they grabbed one of their hands but their vision’s swirling too much to figure out whose.

And then there’s a medic and they try not to tense when the epipen clicks against their leg and the injection goes but most of their energy is going towards taking in air and letting it out and taking in air and letting it out.

They only realize they’re shaking once they can breathe without thinking about it. It’s from the epinephrine or panic or both and what they want to do is find something heavy to be underneath until it stops but they push themself upright anyway. Bookbaby tosses them a water bottle they don’t even try to catch. Once they’ve picked it up and had enough that their throat is starting to hurt less, they notice that there’s an umpire standing outside the dugout. The space behind their mask is dark. No glowing eyes like there had been right before Seb Townsend had gotten incinerated.

“ **Play must continue** ,” the umpire intones.

“I’ll pitch--” Cornelius starts before being cut off.

“ **Play. Must. Continue**.”

Matteo puts the water bottle aside and stands. They’re still shaky but it’s just one more pitch and then they can go back to lying down. It’s a bad idea to get into an argument with an ump on any day and they’re not about to let Cornelius take a chance with an ump holding a grudge until the next eclipse game he pitches. “It’s fine,” they say, voice hoarse. “I can still pitch.”

Cornelius gives them a look Matteo recognizes as a “this is going to break bad and you need to bail” look as he fidgets with his cufflinks. They try to project more confidence than they feel when they bump his shoulder with their own. “Just gotta throw one strike.”

  
  


They don’t throw the strike. They throw a walk and then a triple and then the game stretches into the eleventh. The Thieves still get the shame victory Matteo had predicted but their hands are still shaking. They’re tired and their body hurts and they don’t want to hang around to get drinks and they don’t want to think about pitching. They want to go home and sleep.

They hang out in the dugout until most everyone’s filtered out of the stadium and head into the locker room. They take a shower, combing through their hair for stray bits of shell. It’s hard to not replay the last two innings. If it hadn’t been peanut weather, if the Mints hadn’t gotten Fourth Strike, if they’d just been better at the game. Years of therapy helpfully identify this as “rumination” but don’t bring up any coping skills. They run the water as cold as it goes and try not to think.

  
  


They’re out of the shower and stuffing their uniform into a plastic bag to keep in separate from the rest of their things when they hear Cornelius coming down the hall. He’s doing that thing where he steps louder than he has to to make sure Matteo hears him. The thing he does when he’s worried about them and wants to make sure if they get startled that they do it before he gets in view.

They shove the plastic bag into their duffle and straighten up, tugging their still wet hair into a messy ponytail. It’ll dry weird but they don’t want it in their face and they don’t think they can hold a hairdryer right now. They can tell Cornelius is about to say something so they jump in before he can. “I’m fine. Just a bit shaky. I’ll get over it.”

He pauses for a moment. “The medic said you need someone to stay with you for the next twelve hours.”

Matteo’s shoulders relax. Worry from a friend is off putting but worry from a friend mandated by a medical professional is something they can manage. They grin, genuine this time. “You volunteering?”

  
  
  


Matteo had been planning to pass out in bed as soon as they got back to their apartment but Cornelius’d already ordered a pizza that arrives a few minutes after they got in the door and they have to show him the laundry room since he’d offered to do a load with their uniform. They eat a slice of pineapple pizza and make sure Cornelius knows where their extra epipens were and their sharps container just in case and that he’s on the wifi.

By the time sleeping arrangements come up, they don’t have the energy to argue that there is a perfectly good pullout bed under the couch if Cornelius doesn’t want to share their bed and that he really doesn’t need to drag a chair into their bedroom just to keep watch like a Victorian mother looking after a child ill with the consumption. It’s damn hard to change Cornelius’s mind once he’s made it up and near impossible when they’re just about asleep on their feet. So they forfeit, let him pull an armchair into the small space between the left side of their bed and their closet, and fall asleep.

  
  


_They’re stuck on the mound. They can’t get up and the umps are advancing._ **_Play must continue. Play must continue._ ** _They can’t speak, they can’t breathe, their throat is too tight. They can’t see any of the other Thieves. It’s just faceless umpires and faceless Mints in their too bright uniforms and a ball held so tightly in their hand they can feel the seams digging into their palm and breath too short in their throat and_

They jolt awake, breathing hard but breathing. In, out. In, out. It’s still dark outside but there’s enough light from the streetlights and the building across the way coming in through the edges of the blinds that they can see Cornelius’s profile, even if they can’t read his expression. He’s taken off his jacket and his tie at least. They take in a few more breaths just to reassure themself that they can and nudge his knee.

“Time’s it?”

“Bit after three.” His voice is steady, not newly awake. Actually keeping watch.

“You been awake?”

There is a pointed silence instead of an answer.

They nudge his knee again. “Hey. Not getting rid of me that easy. Trust you with my life, remember?”

There’s another pointed silence.

It’d been another late night conversation. Thin one had been after Chorby Soul’s incineration. Cornelius had been in the middle of a quiet crisis (the only kind of crisis he ever had) about dragging the Thieves into a bloodsplort before it was a bloodsplort. Matteo hadn’t wanted to say that they were planning on seeing if they could get on a proper ILB team after their stint in the underleagues or that the chances of any particular Thief getting incinerated weren’t actually that high. They’d instead said “Don’t stress about it. I trust you with my life.”

And maybe that’d been the wrong thing to say since they’d turned implicit weight into explicit weight but Matteo had followed Cornelius into danger before and would again. They trusted Cornelius with everything they had and that didn’t stop just because of rogue umpires.

Cornelius shifts in his chair, his face still too much in shadow for Matteo to read his expression. They give his knee a squeeze in an attempt to provide some kind of reassurance. “See? Happened before, it’ll happen again, but I’m fine.”

They want to stay awake but the adrenaline from their nightmare is fading fast and god they’re so tired. They yawn, stretch, and settle back in to sleep.

  
  
  


Cornelius insists they take day 53 off and if Matteo was less exhausted then they would’ve argued. They try to make it to most of the Thieves games and while practice never seems to do anything, something had been off in the last innings after their ration and they need to get a hold on it. But their throat is still sore and their arm hurts more than it usually does after pitching a game, even after one with extra innings.

Matteo knows Cornelius only pitches on the 4’s and 9’s and rarely goes to any other games and Matteo also knows that he could easily make up an excuse to leave for the rest of the day. They’ve been stable for more than twelve hours now and even though they feel like shit and have a developing bruise on their thigh they keep forgetting about, they don’t actually need supervision.

Still, Cornelius hangs around. He makes coffee and good on his promise to do laundry and refuses to stop smoking even when Matteo complaints about not getting their security deposit back. They put on the game and he doesn’t say anything when they leave it on mute and instead concentrate on mastering a new shuffle. He doesn’t say anything when the reporter from SIBR comes on that says they’ve dropped a full star in pitching which Matteo appreciates more than they appreciate everything else put together.

After the post game report is done but before Cornelius leaves, they make plans to have dinner on Day 57,in the evening after the next game they pitch.

“My place again. I’ll cook something,” they offer. “You don’t even have to stay the night this time.”

Cornelius snorts. “Fine. I’ll hold you to that.”

“See you then.”

  
  


The next day is Day 54 which means Cornelius is pitching since he’s got the 4’s and 9’s. Usually Matteo makes an effort to watch his games but the Thieves are still playing the Mints and it’s peanut weather again and they can’t. They get to the door and put on their shoes and freeze. Their hands are shaking again and fuck, they just want to go see their friends play.

They kick off their shoes and grab a deck of cards to work through every trick they know and then they drill their new shuffle and pace until their hands are steady again. The game is halfway over by that point and it’s a lot easier to convince themself to leave the apartment and not go to the game.

The routine is familiar. They head to the lot down the street, chalk a batter’s box and a strike zone on the wall, and pace out the distance back to the mound. The asphalt isn’t raised there but it’s good enough for practice and it not being a baseball field is a plus today. The warm up and stretch, working tension out of their shoulders. They’re going to pitch and it’s going to be fine.

They wind back and their easy first pitch goes wide, missing the strike zone by a good foot and a half. The second is wobbly at best and clips the top corner. The third is a fastball that they can tell would end up a homerun against anyone batting more than a star and a half. They wind up a fourth time and freeze, their muscles tensing. It feels wrong. They know what pitching is supposed to feel like. They’ve been pitching since blittle league. They pitched for the Underleagues. They taught Cornelius how to pitch and they know what it should feel like and this is not it.

They drop the ball and let it roll away and squeeze their eyes shut so they don’t have to see i it would hit an imaginary foul line. They clench and relax their hands as they list a con for every letter in the alphabet until their heart stops pounding in their ears.

They take a few deep breaths. In. Out. Still breathing.

They gather up the balls and try again.

  
  


Days 55 and 56 are the same. They want to go to the game and it’s bird weather both days and not even peanuts but the Thieves are still playing the Mints and the only thing they can think about when they open the door to go to the game is hitting the mound and not being able to breathe. There’s texts from the rest of the Thieves they haven’t answered. It’s not bad that their team’s checking up on them but Matteo doesn’t have the energy to tell them how they’re doing. They decide between answering texts and practicing and go out to the lot again.

Things start to get better but not by much. On day 56 they’re no longer freezing up but their pitches are still sloppy. They can’t reliably hit the strike zone. They know realistically it’s not the end of the world. There are worse pitchers. They’re still better than most of the rotation. Everyone loves No Stars Lars. But they’re supposed to be dependable.

Matteo keeps pitching until after it gets dark and the streetlights flicker on. It’s not good for their shoulder and the next day is a 7 so they’re pitching but they can’t stop thinking that maybe if they just figure out how to move their body right that it’ll do what it’s supposed to do.

They end up grocery shopping at well past midnight to grab ingredients for dinner and hope they can pull something together that’s acceptable.

  
  
  


They pitch on day 57. It’s an eclipse and Matteo can’t stop eying the umps with unease. It’s hard to stop thinking about their voices ( **play must continue** ) and how they had been surrounded in their dream ( **play must continue** ) and how some of the players said umps held grudges until it was eclipse weather. They’d interrupted a game ( **play must continue** ) and that was more than enough to get you incinerated.

They palm coins into the back pockets of half their teammates’ uniforms and try to breathe.

The first inning isn’t a disaster. They don’t feel good about it but there’s only one score and the Thieves enter the second inning tied 1-1.

The top of the second starts strong. Matteo appreciates the lineup giving them 5 runs of wiggle room between a Thief victory and a tie. It’s more space than they had on the 52nd and if they can just keep the Mints off base for half of the remaining innings then they’ll be fine.

They keep telling themself that they’re going to be fine, that it’s fine, but their hands start shaking again when they get back on the mound. They let a single and a triple and another single go and the comfortable 5 run lead turns into a tenser 3 run lead. Matteo’s shaking out their elbow and trying not to look at the scoreboard when they feel an umpire looking at them.

It’s a feeling like you’re being looked at with a fire poker or you’ve downed something hot too fast or you know you’re about to be caught out in a lie or that someone just saw how you did a trick and are going to call you on it. They saw Seb Townsend go and they know how much time they have.

Matteo learned how to count seconds damn close to accurate in lectures. They’d felt out how long a second was and then five and then thirty and then a minute. Their internal clock became unbeatable as long as you wanted an interval shorter than 5 minutes counted out.

They reckon they’ve got about 15 seconds left before going up in flames.

They still aren’t good at patter but they aren’t about to just stand there and wait. They still know how to put on a show.

They turn from the ump and look to the outfield, scanning for Vela. 10 seconds. “Hey, Twofer! Remind me! What comes after The Turn again?” 5 seconds. They turn back, not waiting for a response. The ump’s gaze is sharpening, bright as the hidden sun. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

0 seconds.

**Rogue Umpire incinerated Shoe Thieves pitcher Matteo Prestige! Replaced by Gunther O'Brian.**


End file.
